


Race against Time

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bazhir, Death, Desert, Gen, Loneliness, Never alone, Race Against Time, Time - Freeform, Voice Lessons, mentoring, patience - Freeform, youth and age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 09:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15264906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Jon is in a race against time, but Ali knows they have all the time they need. Set during Woman Who Rides Like a Man.





	Race against Time

Race against Time

“Jon.” Ali’s scratchy sand voice made Jon flush with guilt at wanting to outrun the death breathing hot down his neck in the tent Ali kept blazing enough to melt the desert sun in the sky by racing his Darkness against the wind alongside Alanna’s Moonlight. Ali couldn’t escape the death that was eating him from the inside, making him rot like a corpse in the sun, and Jon should never have tried to abandon him or all the other responsibilities that choked Jon like weeds. “You came at last.”

“I’m always running behind the time, I’m afraid, but as you can see, I was in a hurry.” Jon gestured at his tunic–sweaty from the blinding desert sun, his heated argument with Alanna, and his irate march to Ali’s tent after she refused to ride with him. He hoped it would make him appear as if he were in a rush to arrive at Ali’s tent rather than flee from it. 

“You were in a hurry, but not, I think, to get here.” Ali smiled slightly as he waved a hand for Jon to join him on his plateau of blankets and pillows. Chagrined, Jon chided himself for attempting to deceive the Voice when the Voice could read the lies in his mind before he spoke them aloud.“You didn’t wish to see me today.” 

“I’ll always want to see you.” Jon blamed his burning cheeks on the cackling braziers he passed as he crossed the tent to settle beside Ali on a blanket woven by the skillful hands of Bazhir women. 

“You weren’t running here.” Ali acted as if Jon hadn’t spoken. He didn’t raise his voice–it was a struggle for him to talk at all these days–but Jon felt more chastened than if he had. “You were running away from here–away from me, away from the burdens and obligations I represent to you.” 

“I apologize.” Jon dropped his gaze to his fingers fumbling at the blanket beneath him, tugging to create loose threads in the seamless fabric. “I know we haven’t much time, and I shouldn’t make you wait to teach me.” 

His face flamed hot enough to roast meat as it occurred to him that perhaps he had been trying to force Ali to hold onto life longer by dragging out his lessons.

As if he could sense Jon’s thoughts through the bond that connected them and all Bazhir, Ali laughed softly though it made him wince at the strain in his chest. “We’ve all the time we need. The young forever believe that there is never enough time and forever run around trying to outrace it, but the old know that is futile as seeking to stop the sun in the sky and unnecessary because the gods will grant us all the time required to complete our duties before our sun sets.”

“Yes, Ali.” Jon’s throat and tongue felt hopelessly knotted. He should have been comforted by Ali’s calm words, but instead he wanted to rage against Ali’s serene acceptance of his own death and the fate that awaited all mortals. If Jon had been so eager for the Black God’s embrace, he never would have survived the Sweating Sickness his evil cousin had sent to kill him. 

“You’re young and impatient, but I’m opposite–old and patient–and the balance is maintained in that.” Ali cupped Jon’s chin in gentle emphasis as he repeated, “We’ve all the time we need. I will finish training you before I die, and when I die, I’ll be with you always as will every Voice back to the beginning of the Bazhir.” 

“I won’t be alone?” The question stifled Jon, who had always associated death with the final, unalterable horror of being alone forever. To lose a loved one to death was to be separated for eternity and to die was to be permanently parted from everyone and everything he had ever loved. Death meant unending, unabated loneliness black as a shroud over a mirror. 

“You’ll never be alone.” Ali patted Jon’s chin and then released it. “Not when I die, and not when you die either.” 

“I thought it was only given to a Voice to see his own death, not anyone else’s?” Jon’s forehead furrowed. Ali had explained in marvelous and maddening detail how it would upset the balance for a Voice to know any man’s end but his own. 

“I don’t need to see your death to know it won’t be alone.” Ali was wry and weary but affectionate. “You have charisma, Jonathan of Conte, and you will be king. Such men do not die alone.”


End file.
